A Festival of Chira

The humble flattened rice or chira may not be the preferred food for city kids anymore, but there is a 500-year old festival in my hometown Panihati, which carries the name of “chira”, as we call the item known as poha/chura/chidwa in various states.

Traditionally, people in parts of Eastern India, including Bengal, eat chira with milk or dadhi/dahi (curd), sweetened by jaggery. Panihati Chira-Dadhi Utsab or “Danda Mahotsab” witnesses tens of thousands of Vaishnava devotees assembling in Mahotsabtala ghat on the banks of the Ganga every year in the month of Jyestha on Shukla Trayodashi, and having an auspicious feast of chira-dadhi, along with naam-sankirtan and other festivities associated with Gaudiya Vaishnavism.

Colloquially called “chirer mela”, the festival commemorates the Panihati visits of Bhakti movement icon Shri Chaitanya Mahaprabhu and his friend and disciple Shri Nityananda Mahaprabhu, together called "Gaur-Nitai" by devotees, in and around 1515 A.D.

Why chira-dadhi and why it is called Danda Mahotsav or the Festival of Punishment? The legend has it that Shri Chaitanya devotee Raghunath (later famous as Raghunath Dasa Goswami), the son of a wealthy landlord of Saptagram, wanted to renounce worldly affairs and join the Mahaprabhu, but was sent back by him. Once, Raghunath came to know that Shri Nityananda was in Panihati and went to him. Seeing him sitting under a banyan tree on the banks of the river, surrounded by disciples, Raghunath was hesitant and paid his obeisance from a distance. But he was called by Shri Nityananda, who told him in a tone of humour that he will have to accept a punishment for hiding like a thief, and treat all devotees to chira-dadhi, a direction Raghunath followed happily, and received the blessings of the lords. It is mentioned in Chaitanya Charitamrita, a biography of the Bhakti movement leader by poet Krishnadas Kabiraj.

কৌতুকী নিত্যানন্দ সহজে দয়াময়।/রঘুনাথে কহে কিছু হঞা সদয়।।/নিকটে না আইস,চোরা ভাগ' দূরে দূরে।/আজি লাগ্ পাঞাছি, দণ্ডিমু তোমারে।।/দধি চিঁড়া ভক্ষণ করাহ মোর গণে।/শুনি আনন্দিত হৈল রঘুনাথ মনে।।

A banyan tree in Mahotsabtala is believed to be the same under which Shri Chaitanya and Nityananda rested and is venerated by Vaishnavas. Shri Chatanya's first visit to Panihati from Puri in the month of Kartik in 1514 is also celebrated every year. Shri Ramkrishna was a regular participant in Danda Mahotsab. Mahatma Gandhi, who often used to stay in nearby Sodepur Khadi Pratisthan, visited Mahotsabtala in 1946.

(In pic: The revered banyan tree; for information, help taken from Panihati municipality website and some Isckon sites)

Sikkim: Kangchenjunga from a kitchen, and a “guided” trek

Bengalis have a nostalgic obsession with Kangchenjunga, or the “five treasures of snow”, (as derived from words of Tibetan origin). We may not exactly attach a religious significance to the mountain like the people of the hills do, but our literature, songs and films are full of references to Kangchenjunga, and visiting Darjeeling and not getting a chance to see it becomes a “prestige issue”.

So, it was quite depressing for us when the Kangchenjunga kept itself hidden behind dark clouds during our last trip to Darjeeling in 2018. Like 'chataka', the bird that waits for the rains, we ended up looking up to the sky endlessly.

But my trip to Sikkim last month, with my sisters and their families, made up for it.

We reached Gangtok late in the afternoon and as I woke up the next morning and glanced outside, there it was, the snowy peaks glistening brightly against a super clear sunlit sky. I was so excited that I rushed through the steep stairs of our hotel, ignoring strong protests from my knees, and reached the 3rd floor terrace-cum-dining hall as fast as possible. I started clicking pictures furiously, but a mere phone camera cannot capture the magnificence or the feeling of elation. May be a DSLR would have done a better job, but nothing can compare with the 576 megapixel of the human eye. I kept the phone away, finally, and started savouring the scene in a more relaxed manner, along with hot luchis and aloo-ki-sabji that arrived soon.

The mighty Kangchnjunga

Over the next few days, we saw the Kangchenjunga many times, in many manifestations and many colours. But the most interesting sighting was from the kitchen window of the cottage of an elderly local lady who stayed beside our hotel.

As my elder sister and I were returning from a morning walk one day, our hotel manager, a middle-aged genial Bengali gent, requested the lady (she is called aunty by people of all ages) to treat us to tea and she ushered us in. The small cottage was dark. It had one bed, two chairs and a round table, all of which looked as old as the lady, and a kitchen with copper pots and pans and a view of the Kangchenjunga from a back window. She stays alone, her son working abroad. Over cups of a deep brown and very thick concoction, I was talking to her. No, her life is not exactly smooth. The winter in the hills is harsh, especially for a senior citizen, she said. Still, I could not help wondering how will it feel to have the mountain as a tea mate every day.

Sikkim is ethereal in its scenic beauty. We went to the frozen Changu Lake, took photos of fat yaks reluctantly giving a joyride to fatter Bengali tourists, stayed at a nicely-decorated hotel at the picturesque Lachung village in biting cold and saw numerous hill streams, waterfalls, snow-covered mountain roads and rows and rows of snowy fir trees, just like a perfect Christmas picture. The highlight of our trip for me was our visit to the Yumthang valley, situated at an elevation of 11,700 ft. The hotel manager told us that it is “like Switzerland”. I never went to Switzerland, of course, (Yes, have watched Bollywood songs shot there with sweater heroes and flowing saree heroines), but as i stood at a spot surrounded by mountains, with the blazing white of the ice sheets and dull yellow patches of grasslands spread far and wide, and colourful prayer flags fluttering here and there, I thought it will take a lifetime to see the treasures of India itself. 

The stiff muscles of my legs (I suffer from a disease of the Central nervous system) were advising me against risking a walk over the snow, especially after a fall near the lake the previous day. So, I let the rest of the party venture further and busied myself in taking unnecessary selfies.

But after some 15 minutes, didi's kids came back, panting, and said, “there’s a river there, you can’t miss it! We will take you".

Thus began my “guided trek", and slowly but without any major hiccups, I reached the river of many  colours, running through the valley. “Operation Successful”! The kids rejoiced and ran towards the water.

I was suddenly remembering their time as toddlers.

Yumthang Valley

Yumthang II

Yumthang-III

Waiting for a king

The empty space as seen through the “jali" window inside Zafar Mahal in Mehrauli was said to have been kept by last Mughal emperor Bahadur Shah Zafar for his own burial. Known more for his poetry and patronage of the arts rather then his martial prowess, the elderly king supported the 1857 rebellion, albeit reluctantly, and was tried for treason after the sepoys lost.

Exiled to Rangoon, he died there in 1862, and was buried by the British in an unmarked grave, which was rediscovered by some workers in 1991.

Several sources attribute this couplet to Zafar, who died a lonely death away from his homeland.
“Kitnā hai bad-nasīb 'zafar' dafn ke liye/Do gaz zamīn bhī na milī kū-e-yār meñ.” (How unlucky is Zafar, to not have even two yards for burial in the land of his beloved).

Remembered my visit to Zafar Mahal as I came across a recent news story on lndian Embassy in Yangon preparing to offer a chadar made in Ajmer Dargah at Zafar’s grave.

A Few Good Men

Against the backdrop of the horrific incidents that happened around us in the last few days, I, like many others, was thinking about the many, many moments when I felt unsafe on the streets.

For a change, I then tried to remember some instances when I was made to feel safe by random unknown people.

Like the bus conductor who was keeping an eye out for me and my friend as we, young trainees in PTI in 2001, went on an Agra-Mathura trip on a foggy winter day. Dropping us late at night, he brought the bus as close to our house as possible.

Like the rickshawala taking me home one day after I got my dinner packed from Nizamuddin. He pedalled fast and furious to veer off the main road to a side lane to avoid a group of loud bikers who seemed to be on an ethyl alcohol-induced frenzy.

Like the auto driver who turned 170 degrees from his seat at a signal and told me in an urgent whisper, "put your phone in your bag". I did, and saw that a guy in a two-wheeler has come too close to the auto, nearly ready to snatch my mobile.

Like the ATM guard who gave me "do hazar ka khulla" from his pocket as he heard me uttering to myself that I have no change to take an autorickshaw home.

Like the old light-man in erstwhile Regal cinema who would always offer me a special seat, not letting anyone to sit beside me, as I would go to watch movies alone in that ramshackle theatre.

Like the guy in the general compartment of a local train in Calcutta over 20 years ago, who silently pushed back a man who was making me uncomfortable and stood as a protective wall.

I am not trying to say that our world is not overflowing with fear. I know that I, despite being a nobody, have many privileges which most women, facing daily violence, cannot even afford to think about. But I think time has come to stop calling each other names in social media over our views on security for women, as these are mostly quick reactions (I now think I used too many "us" and "them" in my last post on this), and seek justice and safety for everyone, be it a woman or man, irrespective of class or community.

Yeah, that's a mirage. Still...

IITF Diary 2: Rush for tickets, Gumshuda ki Talash and Geographic Confusion

The last weekend of IITF witnessed a huge rush for tickets. As online tickets and those at metro station counters got sold out, scores of people were standing outside Gate No. 10, desperately looking for some means to enter. An officer of our pavilion was saying that random people was stopping him, pointing to his exhibitor pass and asking where did he get it. It reminded me of last year when I was standing at the Gate to assist media entry for a press meet and people were coming up and offering Rs 500 for the complimentary passes I was carrying. This time, while entering through Gate 10, I heard a man telling his wife, "bachhon ka school ID se entry karwa do, phir dekhte hai." I was wondering what if the kids end up like Abhimanyu, entering the Chakravyuh but never coming out.

Along with the rush, started continuous announcements for lost companions and items. One stood out, as a high-pitched note was heard in the public address system, "Bina jee, Bina jee", followed by the announcer's voice, "Binajee, jo CR Park se ayi hai, aapke liye --jee yahan intezar kar rahi hai. Aapke god mein unka baby bhi hai". I understood that the shrill voice represented a mother's panic-stricken state. Hope they were reunited. As for lost goods, people were as hopeful as "kisi bhi sajjan ko ek 1plus5T mobile phone mila ho toh yahan jama karwaye" (I don't think such a sajjan exists) and as specific as "ek safed rang ki thaila mein ek maroon rang ki suit agar kisiko mila ho to..."

With all the states bundled up in Hall 12-12A, people were running from one to another in a frenzy. "Arre Bangal chal lo, saree dekhna hai"; "Kerala hogaya"? It can lead to odd geographical statements such as "Haan main Rajasthan mein hoon...arre Chhattigarh se left lekar Andaman Nicobar ke pass".

The best statement I overheard today was by a man who was telling his wife "mujhe toh aaj 10,000 rupaye kharch karna hai." The woman said "kuchh dhang ka na mile, toh bhi"? I was thinking why then in WhatsApp jokes it is always the woman who spends unwisely?

IITF Diary 1: Cacophony and carpet

Duty at India International Trade Fair involves a lot of madness, more so in recent years as thousands of visitors jostle each other in a much-reduced space (the fair is being held at a temporary set-up due to renovation work at Pragati Maidan). To unwind, I am sharing some snippets of happenings as I witnessed:

Cacophony: Hall12A, housing state and UT stalls, is offering a strange ensemble of sound and music. A Gandhi@150 stall is blaring "Vaishnav Jana To" at full volume, interspersed by shouts of "Chana Zor Garam" and "Bhelpuri, Bhelpuri" from nearby Rajasthan stall. Someone at the public address system is droning on and on about plastic ban, most of his words coming out garbled and tired. A group of folk artists from Haryana is adding to the orchestra with "clank, clank" sound of the manjira, while Mr. Sameer from Maharashtra is creating the loudest blasts of noise with his "tutari". Also known as "ranashringa", it used to be a war trumpet, but trade fair is a battle no less.

Carpet: It is said that the wall-to-wall carpet at Terminal 3 of Delhi airport is not to the liking of many passengers, but the same at IITF is a hit. Tired after a day's shopping, the families and their trolley bags, both with bellies full of stuff, rest on the carpet. Yesterday, I saw an elderly couple - the man sitting with his legs stretched, the wife fast asleep beside him, using her bulging shopping bag as a pillow. Sometimes, one may witness minor mishaps too. A kid of around 2 years was playing in front of our stall last evening. The Hall was getting emptied, but the boy's mother was still haggling with the stole- seller a few metres away. The boy, unattended, first started "swimming" over the carpet, then took his milk bottle and let a few drops spill over. When he started rubbing his hand over it, a call came and I had to return to the office cabin, hoping that he did not lick his hand afterwards.

A Tree on My Wall

Maa would always stress on the value of time and it is deeply ingrained in me. So, instead of updating my bank KYC, I used my free time on a Saturday a few months back to paint a tree on a wall of my rented flat. The branches were a bit disproportionate, but I was feeling happy.

I am very brave when I am impulsive, so when some doubts occurred, ki landlady kya bolegi, I prepared a reply. I will tell her, "jane ke pehle painting karwa dungi" (I never understood yahan whitewash ko painting kyon kehte hai).

My middle-class Punjabi landlady is a good person (she didn't increase the rent since the last two years) but looks very stern, so I am awkward in front of her. Since the tree, I stopped telling her about small repairs or "pani nahi aa raha hai" issues as I didn't want her to see my "art".

But last evening, the bell rang and she was there! "Beta, agreement renew karwaya, sign kar do. Main khud hi aa gayi, aapko kya niche bulate iske liye." Now, I am torn between happiness (rent iss bar bhi nahi badhaya) and fear, trying to cover the tree with my huge 5 ftx10 inches body frame.

But within a few seconds, her eyes fell on it and following conversation happened.

Aunty: Beta, yeh aapne banaya?
Me: haan aunty, jane ke pehle painting karwa dungi (prepared reply)
Aunty (slightly irritated) arre, uske liye nahi bol rahi hoon, yeh achcha banaya hai.
Me (too surprised): haan, tree banaya, acrylic colour se (of course, it's a tree, stupid, she can see it)
Aunty: Haan woh toh dikh raha hai (tree toh thik banaya, par iss bewakoof ladki ko sarkari naukri kaise mil gayi?)

Whatevs, agreement renew hogaya. So the tree stays for another year.

Not a tiger in the forest, not a star in the sky

Last time in Ranathambore, it was, “the tiger just dragged its kill towards the lake and we will go there now". And five jeeps full of eager tourists rushed to the “site" for a glimpse of the elusive predator.

This time in Sariska, “there is the warning call. The tiger may come here now.” And three jeeps full of talkative travellers parked beside a pond, expecting the yellow-and-black striped beast to just strut in front of them like a ramp model.

Neither then, nor now, I or any other “jungle safari" tourists saw even the tail of a tiger. Despite the insistence or persistence of the guides and the drivers who follow their trail patiently through the uneven reddish dirt tracks of the reserve forests.

Think about that rationally. Will you eat your food in front of scores of compulsive picture-clickers like me or in peace in the corner of some cave? And if you know a group of determined people are looking for your pug marks, stalking you like obsessed lovers and now waiting for you at a spot, will you not turn away and go somewhere else? I think the tigers are brainy enough to do that. I wonder then who are those people who, during the small window of a two-hour safari, find a tiger along with cubs strolling lazily beside their vehicle and upload photos in social media? Why don’t they buy lottery tickets?

I also wonder how sad the scores of spotted deer, or sambhar, or nilgai must be feeling when they hear people talking excitedly about “sightings" and never meaning them. May be that’s why they always look straight into your eyes, probably asking, “are we not good-looking too? Why do you search for the big guy only, instead of seeing the trees, the birds, us, or the fine web of the spider atop the shrubs, glittering in sunshine?”

Before you mutter “grapes are sour”, let me say that I not only had the experience of a tiger-less tour in Sariska this time, but also had the misfortune of encountering a cloudy sky after checking into a resort which specialises in astronomy and star-gazing. But I rarely feel unhappy during travel. I always find something to take home. Like a new interest in stars and planets, triggered by the education officer of that resort who taught us how to use planisphere, a map-like device to know the night sky. Or like the information that deep inside Sariska, there is a fort called Kankwari where Aurangzeb had once  imprisoned Dara (plan to see it next time).

If only, I had the same positive attitude towards office work!

Chand Baori, a well extraordinaire

Coming from a rain-rich part of the world, I had no idea about Baolis or Baoris, water pools deep inside the ground with flights of stairs leading down to them, before I came to Delhi. The capital has quite a few famous stepwells such as Ugrasen Ki Baoli or Rajon Ki Baoli, the beautiful designs of which attract tourists and heritage enthusiasts alike. I was told by many that the arid regions in the north and west, such as Rajasthan and Gujarat, boasts of stepwells which are even more aesthetically pleasing and absolute architectural wonders, being not only sources of water or rain harvesting units, but places of worship with elaborate columns and pavilions displaying intricate carvings and sculptures of deities. These stepwells served as a spot for social interaction and shelter for pilgrims, often built near popular religious destinations.

Friends with similar interests are not easy to find, but I am lucky enough to have a few, two of whom planned and executed a Diwali day trip to see the 9th Century Chand Baori, one of such ancient stepwells and counted by many travellers amongst the “hidden secrets” of India. Located in Abhaneri village of Rajasthan, it has been described as a “magical maze” and one of the world’s deepest and “most spectacular” stepwells by various writers.

However, neither the narrations, nor the thousands of Google photos do justice to the feeling of amazement it offers to a visitor who walks through a seemingly ordinary village street full of tea shops, fruit-sellers and souvenir-peddlers to suddenly enter into an world of exquisitely symmetrical geometric patterns of steps and stairs, built in a style of an inverted pyramid. The baori, named so because it was built by Raja Chandra of Nikumbha Dynasty, has 3500 steps, 13 levels, and several pavilions and arched galleries, a few of which were later Mughal additions. Two huge pillars with fine carvings can be seen coming up majestically from the square-shaped pool of green slush, but iron railings on all sides prevent visitors from going down. This measure, taken to prevent any possible mishap, is in place since 2012, said Mr. Meena, the ASI guy managing the entry.

The site is a huge draw for foreign travellers, but there were very few Indians.
Hundreds of pieces of sculpture can be seen all over the compound, recovered from the adjacent Harshat Mata temple complex, which was built around the same time but was damaged (by Mahmud of Ghazni, some articles said) and is at present undergoing, what looked like, a massive and painstaking reconstruction effort. Harshat Mata is the goddess of happiness who spread glow of joy (abha), in the village, which thus earned the name of Abhanagri or Abhaneri.

Diwali night was a quiet affair. We lighted a few sparklers standing near the gate of our hotel (we stayed in the Haveli-style Abhaneri Niwas, offering modern amenities and simple food) and I was, inexplicably, somehow missing the sound and light show of Delhi.

However, this morning, as I opened my eyes to see a blue-and-white sky instead of a thick layer of smog, I felt better. The visit to Chand Baori was all the more worth it, as geometry,  for the first time, wasn’t a source of pain for me.

(Source: Articles in Lonely Planet and Encyclopedia Britannica)

Mathematical precision 

 

Harshat Mata temple

Abhaneri Niwas hotel 

Phoolwalon ki Sair: An Afternoon of Stories

It started in 1812, as a thanksgiving gesture by a Mughal queen whose son returned from exile by the British; turned into a celebration of harmony and togetherness over the years; and Phoolwalon Ki Sair or Sair e Gul Faroshan (the festival of flower-sellers) is still being held every year in Mehrauli, amongst the monuments and heritage structures in the oldest city of Delhi.

I traced the route of the festival quite a few times (https://trailoftwocities.blogspot.com/2019/02/exploring-mehrauli-part-1-google-map.html?m=1) (https://trailoftwocities.blogspot.com/2019/02/exploring-mehrauli-ii-tracing-route-of.html?m=1)  but never got the opportunity to go there during the course of the event. The wish came true yesterday, during a heritage walk led by Asif Khan Delhvi of Delhi Karavan, which covered the traditional spots associated with the annual extravaganza, and offered the participants a chance to re-live the history of Phoolwalon Ki Sair, sharing tales of its former glory, its significance and its sights and sounds in minute details.

Phoolwalon Ki Sair traces its origin to the reign of Badshah Akbar Shah II, one of those unknown later Mughal rulers and  father of Bahadur Shah Zafar. His Queen Mumtaz Mahal, fulfilling a vow, offered a chadar of flowers at the dargah of Khwaja Qutbuddin Bakhtiyar Kaki in Mehrauli and floral “pankhas" at the nearby Yogmaya temple in gratitude after her young son Mirza Jahangir, imprisoned by the British, was freed. The festival then turned into an annual celebration of amity which reached its pinnacle of glory during the time of Zafar, the last Mughal, who is known better in history for his poetic abilities and his role as a patron of the arts rather than his military prowess. We were told that the festival did not happen in the tumultuous year of 1857, but was revived again. In 1942, during the Quit India movement, the British, like any government following the principle of divide and rule, targeted symbols of harmony and banned it. The event was restarted again in 1962 and is being held every year since then. Floral chadars and pankhas are still offered at the dargah and the temple, while Qawwali, musical storytelling and other cultural programmes are organized in the backdrop of the Lodhi-era Jahaz Mahal.

I have visited these historical sites several times in recent months, but it was still a memorable experience to listen to the stories of pomp and show, fun, frolic, food and festivities, kite-flying and horse-riding during the fading years of Mughal rule, sitting at the Zafar Mahal around the time of sunset, in front of the grave of Akbar Shah II and the sad empty space kept by Bahadur Shah Zafar for his own burial, which is still awaiting the remains of the emperor who died in exile in Rangoon.

I did not attend the cultural evening at Jahaz Mahal, but took some pictures quickly, amidst irritated gestures by a posse of hassled policemen trying to keep a large number of curious onlookers away from the gate of the monument which at other times remain largely empty except by a few localites resting here and there.

Cultural programme at Jahaz Mahal

Yogmaya temple, decked up for the festival

Entrance gate of dargah of Bakhtiyar Kaki, decorated in a similar manner

A glimpse of the dargah

Grave of Akbar Shah II

Grave of Akbar Shah II and space kept for the last Mughal